


Jingle Bells

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Biggest idiots ever, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Confused John, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hair, Hair touching, Jingle Bells, John Sings, John sings quite badly, M/M, Scared to act, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Tension, Sherlock hates carollers, Sherlock is annoyed, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “Jingle bells, jingle bells, Jingle all the way. Oh, what fun it is to ride, in a one-horse open sleigh...”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	Jingle Bells

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, Jingle all the way. Oh, what fun it is to ride, in a one-horse open sleigh...” John mumbled idly as he swilled away the mass of popping bubbles off a now shiny and clean saucepan, watching them gather in a bobbing, floating clump in the basin, awaiting for the time John broke through them to grab the bowl beneath. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, Jingle all the way; Oh, what fun it is to ride, in a one-horse open sleigh." 

The song circled in his head, playing on a loop, and he washed to the beat of it, scrubbing utensils and cutlery and sharp glinting knives. Some of the knives, the implements, weren't made for making or eating food, but John washed them anyway, trying not to cut himself on the dangerous edge of an already bloodied scalpel. It didn't bother him much anymore. He always washed everything with a few dabs of bleach and he'd seen the array of items that Sherlock had to play with, items that were either borrowed or bought through elusive contacts. They were professional and expensive and wholly unneeded in John's opinion. What would Sherlock need a Beavertail burnisher? More to the point, how did John know what one of those were on sight now? 

"Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh. Over the fields we go. Laughing all the way..." John lifted up a stainless steel earwax removal tool and grimaced at it in resigned frustration. "Ha ha ha..."

There were more at the bottom, of course. Needle drivers, suction tubes, one specula, surgical scissors, retractors, tongs, several test tubes, pipettes, forceps, and a handful of watch glasses. All of which needed washing. All of which had been lingering in the bottom of their wash basin for far longer than they should have been lingering, far before the bowls, plates, mugs, spoons, forks, knives and pans that had been dumped atop of them. John sighed through is nose, hardly surprised but still a bit miffed at the number of things that Sherlock could have washed days ago, and got to work on them, shifting his weight from side to side to the still churning song that filled his mind, that somehow took hold of his hips for a slightly out of rhythm, shimmying sway. It made things a bit better. Took the mindless boredom of the washing up and eased the tension in his arms, brightened his mood, keeping it from dipping too low.

"Bells on bobtail ring,' making spirits bright. What fun it is to laugh and sing, a sleighing song tonight!"

When he was finally done, as he was just drying the last plate to be put away in the open cupboard nearby, Sherlock appeared from the ether and slid against his back, looming over his shoulder and slapping his hand over John's partly open mouth, snarling lowly in annoyance, “If you continue to sing that _blasted_ song any further, I’m going to _rip_ out your tongue and cook it for dinner! - And I know how to cook a good tongue.” His lips were inches from John’s ear, marking the sensitive skin with punctuating puffs of hot breath. "Simmer the tongue with spices until tender. Remove the skin and slice. Add a delicious onion and mushroom sauce. Add salt and a pinch of black pepper—"

John nudged his elbow into the side of Sherlock's stomach and wiggled aside, putting the plate down before managing to wrench Sherlock's hand away, “That's a _beef_ tongue recipe. The one I saw you looking at this morning - God, what's up with you?” John grumbled. “You've been in a snit since I got home!”

“You’ve been singing _that song_ since you got home!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms up and spinning to go off and pace, like he tended to do when he was pouting, when he was making his way up to a full out tantrum, yet he instead span back around again and prodded a long finger into John’s chest. “Stop. Singing. I’ve had about all I can take!”

“Alright, calm down! It's just a song. One stuck in my head, yeah, but not one I've continually sang aloud—"

" _Yes you have_!"

"Well I didn't bloody realise that! I thought I had only started when I was forced to do the washing up,” John replied, making sure to be just as loud as Sherlock, if a tad louder, and folding his arms in reaction to Sherlock's widening stance of bullying dominance. “Look, I'm _sorry_ , okay? I heard it from some carollers on the way home and it must have got lodged in my brain. It's a classic! Catchy. Makes me nostalgic...” Frowning at the positively horrified expression on Sherlock's face, John shifted his footing and cocked his head, lifting his brow in question. "What?"

“Carollers?"

John frowned again, "Yeah--"

"Oh _good God_. - How far away from here were they?” he demanded and turned to sprint and skid into the living room, hopping to the window where he peered out with narrowed, searching eyes. After a second of stunned silence from John, Sherlock yanked shut one of the curtains and pointed at him. “ _How far_? Were they on our street? In the park? - I don't want to hear any more Christmas songs. I am going to go _mad_! Completely and utterly _bonkers_!”

“ _Relax_ , they were outside the tube station,” John assured him, rolling his eyes and walking behind his chair, which he rested against, arms still folded as they rested down upon the headrest. “You must like _some_ Christmas songs? Surely? _Nobody_ can resist some cheesy Christmas music...”

“ _I can_! Definitely can resist rubbish like ‘ _Jingle Bells_ ,’” Sherlock groused, shooting him a heated, eye-twitching glower he dropped his pointing finger and pushed back his hair, gripping and squeezing handfuls of it, before ruffling the large curls at the back in heightened infuriation. “It’s pierced my skull! Stuck… stuck in my head like a jagged shard of glass, that I can't just _yank_ out as hard and as fast as I please! - And the worst part about it? Because there is a such a thing, _oh yes_! The worst part _about all of it_ , is specifically how _you_ sing it. You’re a terrible singer! _Terrible_! Absolutely horrendous! Probably couldn't carry a note even if your life depended on it! And yet... and yet I can't _stop_ hearing it. Hearing _you_. Your version. With it's out of key tune. It’s _your_ voice I hear in my head, John! Your stupid inharmonious voice!”

“ _Oi_! Less of that! I'm not _that_ bad a singer!” John replied with a twitching grin, watching Sherlock silently seethe. He allowed the grin to grow massively and held eye contact as he then obnoxiously cleared his throat, doing a few amateur vocal warm-ups before starting a now purposefully awful rendition of Jingle Bells. " _D_ a _s_ h _i_ n _g_ t _h_ r _o_ u _g_ h _t_ h _e_ s _n_ o _w,_ i _n_ a _o_ n _e-_ h _o_ r _s_ e _o_ p _e_ n _s_ l _e_ i _g_ h--"

"Stop."

" _O_ v _e_ r _t_ h _e_ f _i_ e _l_ d _s_ w _e_ g _o._ L _a_ u _g_ h _i_ n _g_ a _l_ l _t_ h _e_ w _a_ y!"

" _Stop it_!"

" _B_ e _l_ l _s_ o _n_ b _o_ b _t_ a _i_ l _r_ i _n_ g _,' m_ a _k_ i _n_ g _s_ p _i_ r _i_ t _s_ b _r_ i _g_ h _t._ W _h_ a _t_ f _u_ n _i_ t _i_ s _t_ o _l_ a _u_ g _h_ a _n_ d _s_ i _n_ g _, a_ s _l_ e _i_ g _h_ i _n_ g _s_ o _n_ g _t_ o _n_ i _g_ h _t_!"

" _No_!"

"J _i_ n _g_ l _e_ b _e_ l _l_ s _, j_ i _n_ g _l_ e _b_ e _l_ l _s,_ J _i_ n _g_ l _e_ a _l_ l _t_ h _e_ w _a_ y _. O_ h _, w_ h _a_ t _f_ u _n_ i _t_ i _s_ t _o_ r _i_ d _e,_ i _n_ a _o_ n _e-_ h _o_ r _s_ e _o_ p _e_ n _s_ l _e_ i _g_ h—"

With a roar of overemphasised fury, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he went for him with arms outstretched, nimbly climbing over things in his way as he took several unnecessarily long strides over to grab and muffle him, “ _Stop_!” he whinged, pushing his palm harder and harder over John’s lips when he let the song continue, even through being smothered by Sherlock's sweet-smelling hand. The force at which John was stifled knocked the both of them into a wall, something Sherlock took full advantage of, pinning John in place with his hips, his legs, to huff at him angrily. “Stop. No more.”

Chuckling at how angry Sherlock looked, John lifted his hands in defeat and pushed on Sherlock's slender wrist until he let him speak clearly, “Don't you like me serenading you?” he teased, his voice a bit breathy after the dizzying rush of being shoved against a wall because of some bad singing. John looked up at Sherlock, dropping his head back, and smirked with playful abandon, feeling his heartbeat kicking harder against his ribs. "Admit it, you love—"

“In _what_ reality is that serenading?” Sherlock asked sharply, sullenly, his hands going to push on John's shoulders. “If you keep this up, I’m going to _murder_ you. I really am. - Murder you with a candy cane. Make you a Christmas cliché.”

“ _Nah_. You'd not murder me. You can't. Not now. - You'd be lost without me,” John whispered, feeling his body heat as they stared at one another, as Sherlock altered his posture and rubbed a bit too slow to be anything else but deliberate. He exhaled quietly and swallowed, unsure exactly on what to do and how to respond. There was an itch, an urge, but he wasn't confident enough to give in to it. “What about if I sing another song then? You could even accompany me on the violin? Give in a little... give in to, uh, that Christmas spirit.”

Sherlock shifted with a small mockingly contemplating frown and tilted his head, as if he were taking a moment to think it over, “Mm. _No_ ,” he drawled. “That's enough now. No more songs. _Especially_ Christmas songs. And never, _ever_ , ‘Jingle Bells.’” 

“You're not interested by the bells of Jingle kind?” John giggled, having no clue what he was talking about but knowing he had to say something to keep the mood light and in no way thick and awkward and bursting with palpable tension. 

“... _What_?” Sherlock snorted with a burst of laughter, frown gone to be replaced by rising eyebrows. 

"I bet I could get you to like it. If I sing it enough."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "You _really_ couldn't. Not with your singing voice, at any rate."

" _Yeah_ , I bet I could."

"I am _not_ falling for—"

"Bet I could get it so that, whenever you thought about the song, heard it playing somewhere, you'd have pleasant, happy little thoughts," John cut in and grinned at Sherlock bemusement, beginning a soft sort of swing jazz version of Jingle Bells, trying to impersonate Sinatra way.

“ _No_. No, no, no, no, no,” Sherlock told him and swatted to push his jaw closed and then pinch his lips together. “ _No more_. I mean it. No matter what genre, I _hate_ it. I hate it _so much_. And I hate you singing it, _specifically_.” An amused, playful, cheeky grin spread across his face as they looked at each other, both of them struggling to contain bubbling giggles. “ _Why_ are you doing this to me? Why must you irk me so?”

“I could say the same thing back at _you_! You _always_ irk me!” John managed to mumble through Sherlock's compressing fingers, although it was mostly a buzzing vibration. Thankfully, Sherlock removed his fingers after sending him a mocking glare and John chuckled. “Think I'm annoying then?"

" _Immensely_ so."

Prodding Sherlock's side, John sighed, "Just because I sang a song you didn't like? And sang it a bit poorly?" he asked, prodding again and again and again, deftly switching which side he aimed, enjoying how Sherlock twisted. " _This_ is annoying. _You're_ annoying. But my singing, isn't, you got that?" He smiled at Sherlock disgruntled huff and knocked his chin up with the same prodding finger. "Why are you really in a mood? Hm?"

"I _told_ you!"

"Yeah, you're a good liar," John replied, nodding and poking up under his armpits to make him abruptly bite back a squeal. "Was all _very_ convincing. But I've sang before. _Must have_. And only now have you noticed my voice is bad? See, that doesn't quite add up."

" _John_..."

"I think you just want some attention," John told him, finding teasing Sherlock a little too addicting. "I think you hated that I went out. Thought I hadn't told you - when I had, by the way - and so you pulled this--" He poked him more. In his stomach, his neck, his elbows, his waist, his hips. Until Sherlock, squirming, snatched hold of his wrists.

“All right, all right, _enough_!” he told him through another snort of laughter, trying to keep his face neutral. “You’re being _highly_ immature, you do realise that, don’t you?”

“It's Christmas, I'll _allowed_ to be immature,” John replied. "And it's about time I was. You normally do enough childish things for the both of us."

“You can’t keep using Christmas as an excuse for your behaviour,” Sherlock scoffed, releasing him to move his hands to John’s collar and smooth his fingers over it. To lift it over the neckline of his jumper. To follow it around to the back. Then, after a brief pause, fixed it, refolding it more neatly. He seemed almost fixated by the motion, by the feeling of it under his fingertips, and he cocked his head to the side with a soft exhale. “You need new shirts…”

“My shirts are fine,” John murmured quietly, peering into his face. “And yes I _can_ use Christmas as an excuse. Of course I can. It's the _perfect_ excuse! - It's the one time of year where you're allowed to eat nothing but chocolates, watch kids films, and sleep for most of Boxing day. It's _brilliant_.”

“That’s preposterous and you are being absurd,” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes, tugging the jumper more tautly down against John’s torso. 

John chuckled and nudged him back, letting their noses bump with another ache of desire, “So, uh, fancy Angelo's tonight? Can't really be bothered cooking. Not after doing those dishes. Not knowing I'd have to do them _again_. And I have a craving for his food. Could make a night of it. Maybe have a bottle of... of, um, of wine and even go as far as to get you that fudge cake you love so much...” 

Sherlock scowled at him, opening his mouth to object, but then blinked at the temptation of the fudge cake, considering it before sighing and glaring, “No. _Absolutely not_. I won’t go out there with the dreaded _carollers_ about. Stalking the streets, looking for their next victim!”

John cackled, stepping back and away to really look at Sherlock, which only set him off again, “Oh for Christ's sake, they're carollers, they're not _sharks_. They don't want to kill you, just want to sing jaunty songs.”

“They want to torture me slowly with their out of tune Christmas melodies!” Sherlock exclaimed and dramatically twirled away, storming to slump down low in his chair. “I am _not_ leaving. They will find me and they will _deafen_ me.”

“The ones I saw weren't bad. They could hold a tune… mostly,” John told him, following to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair and lean his arm across the headrest. “And we both now know that it's not the carollers you don't like, not the songs, nor me singing them. You just wanted—"

"You're _wrong_!"

John shot him a look, but Sherlock kept his gaze down, "Yeah. Yeah, alright, fine. - Well, if we're not going out, perhaps we should just get a takeaway and chill?”

Sherlock huffed and nodded, giving him a sideways look, “Yes,” he answered shortly.

Slipping his hand down, stroking first at the chair leather, John reached to carefully push his fingers into the silky strands of his hair, “I'll probably go for a shower first though, so you'll have to order,” he murmured, unsure why he wanted to touch him. Was it to calm him? Calm them both? Give him the attention he so obviously craved? To give John himself what it was that he craved? "Always best when you do it because they add a little extra."

Humming throatily, toes clenching into the rug as he pressed a bit into the caress, Sherlock closed his abruptly rolling eyes, eyelids fluttering, “Yes…” he husked, mouth opening in evident pleasure. "Helped... helped them with some fraudulent issues... stepson was... taking—"

"Oh, I wasn't thinking Chinese this time," John told him, looking down at his face and feeling his heart ache strongly in affection. It felt good to be close to Sherlock, to be touching his hair again, to see the pretty flush of colour working its way across his cheekbones. "I was thinking Indian tonight... or Thai maybe?”

“Mm-hm… yes,” Sherlock replied, adjusting his seating position, blinking widely with a shaky inhale and then trying to straighten up. “Thai, yes. I… I… I, um, would prefer Thai myself, actually. Thai is good. Great. _Fantastic_.”

“We could still open a bottle of wine too, if you like? I think we have a red… and Mrs Hudson will probably have a bottle of white, if you'd prefer that. I'm not working tomorrow so we could enjoy ourselves,” John continued, watching his own fingers sink and swirl and tangle within Sherlock's curls, enraptured by it now that he had the time to indulge, to fuss, without having his mind focused on other things. He found and stroked a small scar by Sherlock's ear, pondering the reason for its existence for a second, and then spread his fingers to envelop Sherlock's hot scalp, wanting to inspect more in a weird thrill of exploration. 

“ _Ahh_...mm—We have Chenin Blanc…” he muttered, neck reddening and legs become jittery, one thigh twitching and tensing as he glanced at John for a moment. Sherlock then gestured towards the kitchen with an unsteadily waving hand, the direction he was signalling to vague and hard to work out, especially when John was more preoccupied with how Sherlock looked, how he reacted. He was fascinated. “Or Pinot Noir. We... we have one of them. I… uh… I don’t really recall which one we have. I bought one of them for… for something… yet I can't remember if I used both, neither or one over the other.”

“Hopefully the white. I think I'd prefer white,” John replied, studying Sherlock closely and digging his thumb into the base of Sherlock's nape in a circling, pushing, kneading massage. “White is better for Thai, right? And if not, red can give me a hangover and – _well_ – I don't want that...”

Sherlock arched his back with a judder of his hips, “Chenin Blanc is the white… so… so if… if we have that then there is… is no… _noproblem_!”

John blinked, focus immediately drawn down to the movement and frowned, feeling his face heat, even as he questioned what precisely he had witnessed, “Everything, uh, everything okay?”

“Yes. _Yeseverythingisfinethankyou_.” At the deluge of words, Sherlock fidgeted and quickly leaned forward, clearing his throat and stretching his back. "I, uh, I'm fine. Just a thought occurred and... and I couldn't quite grab onto it whilst simultaneously talking to you. You know how it can be."

“Er, yeah. Normally you tell everyone to shut up," John replied with a humourless, short laugh, looking at where his hand was now hovering. Midway between delving back into Sherlock's tempting hair or dropping back to the headrest. "I... I didn't hurt you or anything, did I? I didn't mean to tug or whatever it was that I may have done… even if it's... not... uh... any sort of pulling--”

“ _No_ , _no_ ,” Sherlock told him, turning and crossing his legs to, a wonky, tight smile coming over him as he looked back at John, his cheeks very darkly flushed. “So, white whine with Thai. Good. Perfect.”

“Okay, brilliant...yeah. Okay,” John mumbled, feeling sympathetically embarrassed for him, just slightly suspicious, and oddly smug. “Well, I'll go jump in the shower while you order for us then?”

Nodding quickly, still tightly smiling, Sherlock gestured for John to go, “Of course. I’ll… I’ll do that. Yes.”

John nodded back with a faint tip of his head and then got up, starting to hum to the tune of Jingle Bells again before he caught himself and covered his mouth, “ _Sorry_!”

He hummed the song under his breath whilst he waited for the water to heat, keeping it low in case Sherlock's sensitive and heightened hearing caught wind of it, and undressed, standing naked in front of the gradually steaming mirror. As he looked at himself, he didn't see himself, in fact, he looked straight through his own reflection and instead thought of Sherlock, remembered his reactions, his flush, his quivering thighs and arching back. How many people had done that? Made him squirm? How many had even the permission, the privilege, to touch and grasp and messily swirl? John shouldn't be arrogant over the answer he knew it would be, over the fact that he may be one of the only people, excluding a hairdresser, who'd sank their fingers through the man's hair, enough to make him shake, blush, and lose the power of speech. John shouldn't like it, but he did. God help him he loved the power it gave him.

After spending some time gazing into the middle distance, John climbed into the shower and set about scrubbing his body, his own hair, and his cock, which had perked up for attention. Sherlock had been aroused too. Must have been. Had to have been. What else could explain Sherlock's bright cheeks and odd leg movements? Right? Or was it wishful thinking? Was it just a different kind of pleasure? John knew that he had shivered and wiggled once, when someone had sneaked up to push down a metal, strange looking scalp massager on his head. He remembered how it felt. Was that it?

He inwardly groaned, he just wasn't sure. Wasn't sure what difference it would make either way.

It hadn't been him. It had been the act. Plenty of acts could illicit such a reaction. It was only natural. No feelings involved at all. Not one bit.

Frustrated, confused, and feeling like a complete idiot of a human being, filled to the brim with nonsensical contradictory thoughts, he did what he usually did in a tricky situation. He had a wank.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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> 


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